by Cara Hunter
* * *
‘Fawley? It’s Challow.’
There’s an echo on the line – he sounds like he’s standing in a drain.
‘Where are you?’
‘Crescent Square,’ he says. ‘Gardiner’s place. I think you’d better come.’
* * *
*
When I get to the flat, the forensics team is in the kitchen, and Erica Somer’s in the sitting room, checking the drawers, the shelves, behind the books. The kitchen is one of those Shaker jobs. Pale wood in some sort of Farrow & Ball off cream. Granite surfaces. Lots of chrome. And clean. Very clean.
‘So what is it? What have you found?’
Challow’s expression is grim. ‘It’s more a case of what we haven’t found.’
He nods to the female forensics officer, and she closes the blinds and switches off the lights.
‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’
Challow makes a face. ‘That’s just it. There isn’t anything. We Luminol’d the whole floor and there isn’t a trace of blood anywhere.’
‘Gardiner’s a scientist – he’d know what bleach to use –’
But Challow isn’t buying it, and to be honest, I’m not either.
‘This floor is wood,’ he says. ‘Even with the right chemical and a great deal of time you’d never get everything out of the grain. Not with the amount of blood she must have lost.’
‘Could it have happened somewhere else in the flat?’ More straw-clutching.
He shakes his head. ‘The flooring is the same everywhere except the bathrooms. And we’ve found nothing so far.’
I go back out into the sitting room. ‘Which room was Pippa staying in, Somer?’
‘Through there, sir.’
It’s Toby’s bedroom. It looks just like Jake’s. Not Jake’s before, but Jake’s now. Full of mess and life and boy smells. Toys across the floor, clothes anyhow on the back of the chair. And along one wall, a sofabed. So, Rob Gardiner was keeping Pippa at a distance. He might have been having sex with her, but he was giving her a message, all the same.
Back in the sitting room, Somer is going through the waste-paper bin.
‘Photos,’ she says, showing them to me. ‘Looks like Mr Gardiner’s been busily ridding his life of every last trace of Ms Walker.’
She passes the pictures to me one by one. Pippa lifting Toby in the air; Toby on her lap playing with a pendant round her neck; Toby in her arms, smiling at her, his little hands clapping.
‘So what now,’ she says. ‘Does this get Rob off?’
I shake my head. ‘Not necessarily. Just because she didn’t die here, doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her. We just have to find where.’
‘But all the same . . .’
Her voice trails off.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. I’m probably wrong –’
‘So far, your instincts have been spot on. So tell me.’
‘If Rob Gardiner really did get to Wittenham by 7.30 that morning, how come it took three hours for someone to find Toby? We have all those witness statements – there were loads of people about. Surely someone would have spotted that buggy sooner?’
And that fact snags itself against other things that have been bothering me. The tying up, for a start. I still don’t see why he had to do that. Even if she was still moving after that first blow, I doubt she’d have been in any state to struggle. And I saw Gardiner myself the day Hannah disappeared and there wasn’t a mark on him. No scratches, no grazes, nothing. If they’d really had such a violent row, I think I’d have spotted the signs.
There’s a call then, on my mobile. The desk sergeant.
‘There’s been a message for you, sir. From Vicky. They’ve moved her to Vine Lodge. She wants to see you. Says it’s important.’
‘Tell her I’m on my way.’
* * *
*
Vine Lodge is a big four-storey Victorian house that would be worth as much as William Harper’s if it was in North Oxford, rather than here, off the Botley Road, on the edge of the industrial estate with a view of the carpet showroom. They’ve given her a room on her own, which means it’ll be small, but at least it’s not – thank God – on the lower ground floor. Though three flights of stairs are an unwelcome reminder of how unfit I’ve let myself become.
‘Don’t worry, we haven’t told any of the other residents who she is,’ says the manager as we go up. He’s a cheery shaven-headed bloke with an earring and tattoos up his neck. Perhaps it helps to look like the people you’re supervising.
‘And we’re trying to keep her away from the papers and the news, like you asked. But I’m not sure how successful we’ve been.’
‘How has she been – in general?’
He stops for a moment and considers. ‘Better than I expected. Very quiet.’ He shrugs. ‘I guess that’s not surprising. I think she’ll be seeing the psych for a while yet.’
I nod. ‘Has she talked about the boy?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not to me, anyway. But when she arrived the TV was on downstairs and there was one of those baby adverts on. Pampers or something. She couldn’t bear to look at it.’
We climb the rest of the stairs in silence. There’s music coming from somewhere, and as we pass the windows on the landings I can see some of the kids outside. A couple are smoking. Two lads are kicking a ball about.
The manager knocks on the door at the top of the house, then clatters off back down. Vicky is sitting by the window, looking down at the kids in the garden. I wonder how long it is since she spent time with people her own age.
‘Hi, Vicky, you said you wanted to see me?’
She smiles, tentative. She still looks painfully thin. The loose clothes only make it worse.
I gesture at the chair and she nods.
‘You got everything you need? I hear the food’s not bad. Well, perhaps “not as bad as it could be” is probably more accurate.’
She laughs a little.
I sit forward in the chair. ‘So what did you want to talk to me about?’
She’s watching. Still silent.
‘You said it was important? Perhaps you want to tell us your full name? So we can find your family?’
She’s twisting the end of her jumper in her lap. And when she speaks it’s the first time she’s said anything beyond a whisper. The first time I’ve really heard her voice. It’s deeper than I expected. Softer.
‘I saw the news. On the TV.’
I wait. But a thought is turning in my head.
There are tears now. ‘When I saw it, I remembered. He said he’d got another girl and buried her in the garden. The old man. I thought he was just saying it to frighten me.’
‘Did he say anything else – her name, what he did to her?’
She shakes her head.
‘You’ve not remembered anything else?’
Again, she shakes her head.
It’s enough. It’s going to have to be.
I get up and when I stop in the doorway, she’s gazing out of the window again. It’s as if I was never here.
* * *
* * *
Phone interview with Rebecca Heath
8 May 2017, 4.12 p.m.
On the call, DC A. Baxter
RH: Is that Detective Constable Baxter?
AB: Speaking – can I help you?
RH: My name is Rebecca Heath. I gather you’ve been trying to reach me. I’m Rob Gardiner’s ex-wife.
AB: Ah yes, Ms Heath, we did leave you some messages.
RH: I didn’t get back to you because I didn’t want to get involved. I’m trying to move on with my life. But I just saw the news. It said you’ve arrested Rob. For killing Hannah.
AB: An arrest has been made, but I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss the details.
RH: Well, if it is Rob you’ve arrested, you’ve got the wrong man. I went round there that night – the 23rd.
AB: You spoke to Mr and Mrs Gardiner the night before she disappeared?
RH: No, not exactly. My mother had just been taken very ill and I thought Rob might want to see her. They were always very close.
AB: In your original statement, you said you were in Manchester the day Hannah disappeared, which I believe was verified.
RH: I was. That’s where my mother lives. I got the first train to Manchester Piccadilly on June 24th – it was stupidly early, 6.30 or something. But I was still in Oxford the night before.
AB: So you went to Crescent Square?
RH: I didn’t want to phone and run the risk of getting Hannah, so I went round there. I was hoping I’d catch Rob on his own. But she was arriving just as I turned into the street.
AB: What time was that?
RH: Just before 8. Rob came out to help her with some shopping. She must have parked somewhere else, though, because I didn’t see the car.
AB: How did they seem?
RH: Happy. He put his arm round her. She was smiling. It was all rather tediously lovey-dovey, frankly.
AB: So what did you do?
RH: I hung around a bit. Sat on a bench. They had the curtains open, so I could see them. They were cooking, I think. At one point I saw Rob carrying Toby on his shoulders.
AB: But you didn’t knock at the door?
RH: No. I left after about fifteen minutes.
AB: Why didn’t you tell the police this at the time?
RH: You never asked. And anyway, everyone was saying she’d been seen at Wittenham the next day. I didn’t see how it mattered where she’d been the night before.
AB: Did you see the childminder by any chance?
RH: Well, I can tell you one thing – she definitely wasn’t in the flat that night.
AB: What makes you so sure?
RH: Because I saw her on the Banbury Road when I turned off. I knew who she was because I’d seen her with Toby once or twice in town. She was sitting on a wall with a couple of lads. Students, probably. They all looked pretty pissed.
AB: Thank you, Ms Heath. Would you be able to come in and make a formal statement?
RH: If I have to. I couldn’t stand Hannah, frankly. But it wasn’t Rob who killed her. That I do know.
* * *
* * *
Back at the car, I get out my phone.
‘Quinn? It’s Fawley.’
‘Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you.’
‘Vine Lodge. Vicky wanted to see me.’
‘Look, Gardiner’s ex-wife called. She actually saw Rob and Pippa that night. And if what she says is true, I don’t see how he can have killed Hannah.’
‘I know. Vicky’s remembered something. She said Harper boasted about another girl. About killing another girl and burying her in the garden. That had to be Hannah. Hannah died in Frampton Road and William Harper killed her. These two cases – they’ve always been linked. And that link is William Harper. We just have to find some way to prove it.’
‘OK –’ he begins.
‘And Quinn?’ I say, cutting across him. ‘Get the nanny – Pippa – in again. It’s starting to look like she made up that whole cock-and-bull story about Gardiner, and I’m not about to let that pass.’
There’s a silence. ‘Are you sure?’ he says eventually. ‘I mean, she’s only a kid. And she never actually accused him. She probably just wanted to get her own back –’
Fawley’s law. Three lies and you’re out. Or – in this case – found out.
‘Since when did you get so soft, Quinn? She lied – in an official statement. Bring her in first thing and bloody well charge her.’
I can almost hear his anxiety. ‘What with?’
‘Arrant stupidity for starters.’
And something tells me she’s not the only one round here who’s guilty of that.
* * *
*
An hour and a half later I’m sitting outside my own house. In the car, closed in my own thoughts. Then a curtain moves inside and I realize I’ve been out here too long. She’ll be worried. I get out of the car and drag my jacket out of the passenger seat. By the time I get to the door she’s opened it, and is standing there in a pool of pale yellow light. My beautiful barefoot wife.
Inside, she pours me a glass of wine and turns to me, aware suddenly that my silence isn’t tranquillity.
‘You OK?’
‘I saw Vicky today. She said Harper told her he’d killed before. That he’d abducted another girl and buried her in the garden.’
I can hear her breath come sharp. ‘Hannah Gardiner?’
I nod.
‘So Gardiner didn’t do it.’
‘No, Gardiner didn’t do it.’
I take a gulp of wine and feel the warmth run through my veins.
‘So why did that girl lie – the one who gave you the statement?’
‘Gardiner had just thrown her out because she’s pregnant with someone else’s child. It may have been a cheap little attempt at revenge.’
Alex looks down the garden. ‘’Tis Pity She’s a Whore.’
‘Sorry?’
She shakes her head. ‘This whole case, it’s turning into Jacobean tragedy.’
‘Was that the play we saw – where was it?’
‘Stratford. And it was actually Women Beware Women. But all those plays are much the same – vengeance, violence, mistaken identity. And gore. Lots and lots of gore.’
I remember that production now; I came out peppered with blood. Only this time, for once, it wasn’t real.
* * *
*
Later, when I go out to collect something from the car, there’s a movement at the window above and I glance up to see the boy, looking down at me. The changeling living in my son’s place.
* * *
* * *
Rob Gardiner opens the door to his flat and closes it quietly behind him. His little son is asleep in his arms, and he walks across to the sofa and lays him gently down. Toby stirs a little and turns over, his thumb in his mouth. Gardiner gently caresses his son’s hair then straightens up. The room is darkening in the twilight but he doesn’t turn on the lamps.
He walks to the rear window and looks down at the garden. Then he closes the curtains and sits down heavily on an armchair. Opposite him, on the mantelpiece, the silver photo frames catch what’s left of the light. He can’t see the pictures but the images are etched in his mind. Toby and Hannah. The three of them. Hannah alone. The life he once had.
He gives a little gasp then, and puts his hand to his mouth, careful not to wake his child. And the tears that follow are silent, as he sits there in the dark, remembering.
Remembering.
* * *
* * *
First thing the following morning I brief the team on where we are. On what Vicky said, and Pippa made up, and Rob Gardiner didn’t do.
‘Which means,’ I say at the end of it, ‘that we revert to our original timeline: Hannah was alive at 6.50 a.m. when she called Pippa and left the flat for Wittenham around 7.30, taking Toby with her. The working assumption must be that she met Harper in the street a few minutes later when she went to collect her car and he lured her into his house. Just as he did with Vicky.’
There’s a shifting of feet; a sense of being back where we started, and not much better off. Because we still have no evidence, and we still have no murder scene.
‘So what next?’ asks Baxter. I can hear the weariness in his voice.
‘I want you to go back to Frampton Road and work with Challow’s team on another search of the house.’
‘But we’ve already been through the whole place –
forensics analysed every room –’
‘I don’t care. There must be something we missed.’
* * *
*
When I emerge into the corridor the desk sergeant is waiting outside.
‘That profiler is in reception for you, Inspector. Bryan Gow.’
‘Really? I thought he was in Aberdeen or somewhere.’
‘Seems not. Do you want me to tell him to come back later?’
‘No, he wouldn’t have bothered to come in if it wasn’t important. Bring him up. And get someone to bring us coffee, would you? Decent stuff – not the crap from the machine.’
I get waylaid by the Super on the way back to my office, so Gow is already there when I push open my office door. And now I know what he’s doing here: he has a photocopy of Vicky’s journal on the table in front of him. As well as a take-out coffee from the café up the street.
‘Where did you get that?’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘The latte?’
‘The journal.’
He sits back and crosses one leg over the other. His foot is jigging slightly against his knee. ‘Alan Challow sent it to me. Said he thought I’d find it interesting. Which, of course, I do.’
I take a seat opposite him. ‘And?’
‘I have some preliminary thoughts.’
‘Care to share them with a mere policeman?’
He smiles thinly. ‘Of course. But I’d like to observe the girl as well. Is that possible?’
‘I asked Vicky to come in and start on her statement. It was going to be tomorrow but we can call and see if we can bring it forward.’
Gow reaches over and picks up his cup. ‘Perfect.’
I go out to find Everett and ask her to contact Vine Lodge, and when I return to the room Gow is leafing through the pages of the journal.
‘It’s the child that puzzles me,’ he says. ‘Or rather, the girl’s relationship with the child. I gather they tried to put them together at the hospital but it wasn’t a success?’
‘She screamed so much they had to take the boy away. They said it would only make things worse, forcing the issue.’